


synonyms: suppress; put an end to; break

by possessedradios



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: (I think? Idk how genres work), (It's not really important for the fic but it's very important for me shhh.), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post Hephaestus, Recovery, Suicidal Ideation, Trans Daniel Jacobi, and the one (1) thing they all have in common is that they’re all messy af, mild/vague sexual content, this is a mixture of about 23 different wannabe-experimental writing styles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 00:05:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13042377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/possessedradios/pseuds/possessedradios
Summary: Not having to strap yourself against a surface at night anymore is nice, but that doesn’t explain why you share a bed without ever talking about it.Plus, not knowing whether to kill the others or oneself, Jeopardy, wasting money effectively through talking, and living together with an alien.





	synonyms: suppress; put an end to; break

**Author's Note:**

> Me: Jacoffel is cute, but I know I'll never write anything for it.  
> Also me: Oops.

so, okay.

that’s where it starts:

you wake up, and you’re home.

the sun is setting, but it’s still there, you stare up at it, and it blinds you, makes you almost feel alive. it’s warm. so, so warm on your skin, you look down at your hands and, _oh_ , there’s blood on them. you don’t know where it came from, but it’s old, darkredbrowncrusty, and it’s not as if that’s something you’re not familiar with. 

you look around and see lovelace and eiffel a few feet away on the ground, asleep or unconscious or dead. you can’t really bring yourself to care, not right now. you take in a shuddering breath, and there’s- there’s smells, you smell the sky and the ground you’re sitting on, the grass, the sun, you’re sure you can smell the sun, you smell the earth, this planet, your planet. 

your hand is shaking as you cramp it over your mouth, as you shove the loud sob that wants to tumble over your lips back down your throat and almost choke on it. your trembling fingertips drum a rhythm against your cheek, like morse code, like your beating heart.

you sit, waiting for something to happen. 

you sit, waiting for the deafeningly loud-bad feeling in your chest to go away, the one that screams at you that something will go wrong, that something or someone will kill you any moment now, or that you’ll wake up and find yourself on the sol or the hephaestus or the urania.

you sit, waiting for it to go away, or for all your fears to actually come true, and it feels a little like your childhood.

the sun keeps creeping lower and lower while you sit (waiting), and the colors of the sky turn more and more dim, it looks like a faded postcard, looks like someone keeps adding liquid to already blurry watercolor, and then it’s dark and there are stars, and you realize you’re a fucking mess. you want them gone, you can’t stand the sight, you can’t stand the darkness, you’re afraid it will never fade again, afraid that it’ll be like _up there_ all over again, endless night with superiors-turned-enemies and enemies-turned-allies-turned-a-mockery-slash-illusion-of-friends and best-friends-turned-dead-bodies, it’s so inherently _wrong_ and you’re back on earth, back among seven point five billion people and you’ve never felt so alone.

it’s dark and there are stars and you tear your hand away from your lips, bury your fingers in the soil, grabbing fistfuls of grass and _pulling_ , and you allow yourself to break down.

you’re still sobbing, caught somewhere between asphyxiation and hyperventilation, when lovelace’s voice cuts through the ugly, weak sounds your body keeps producing. “ja- jacobi?”

you jerk your head up and she’s standing, stumbling, staring at eiffel, then at you, and something in your eyes seem to make her decide to look after you instead of eiffel; she’s walking towards you, steps unsteady, only to fall down on her knees right next to you.

she hugs you as if that was an okay thing to do, as if you didn’t help putting her through hell and back, and you want to scream and instead bury your face in the crook of her neck. she smells like void and terror, she smells like space and you’re shaking so violently that it takes you two full minutes to realize that she’s crying as well, but she does it with dignity; silent, warm tears and deep, only slightly shaky breaths.

you don’t know how long you sit there, clinging to each other, before you hear groaning and swearing and-

_alive he’s alive oh thank god_

-“ugh, goddard really ought to stop using dummies pryce designed for their crash tests; _normal_ people have _organs_ and would like to _keep them inside their body_ ,”

you laugh, a wet, broken sound, and as you lift your head to look at eiffel, the faint light from the moon and the stars is just bright enough to illuminate him a little, and instead of looking around, looking at his planet, he’s staring up at the sky with big, big eyes.

*

you’ve been walking alongside the seemingly endless road for what must’ve been hours when the headlights of a still vaguely distant car illuminate the road in front of you. you look at each other, and you see the panic you feel reflected in the other two’s eyes,

_(fight or flight? the si-5 never taught you what to do when you find yourself thrown into a new mission without ever receiving debriefing for the last one,)_

and you think, _oh, great, we’re all messed up, i can’t even begin to estimate the costs of the therapy bills_ , as if there was any way in hell you’d ever attempt therapy again.

“should. should we try to stop the car or…?” eiffel asks, but no one answers, you all just stand there and stare at the approaching vehicle. it passes by you, then slows down and stops. you look at each other, and then lovelace sighs and walks up to it. eiffel follows her immediately. you need a few seconds.

*

you’re sitting on the floor. the guest room is tiny and the two beds were crammed with porcelain dolls before you put them all on the floor instead, taking each of them in your hands. how familiar the dried blood on it had looked. how unfamiliar it was to touch something gently and with care.

“so,” lovelace says. “home.”

“home,” eiffel repeats. 

“what now?”

“i don’t know. i don’t know anything right now.”

“minkowski,” you suddenly say, entirely too forceful, you spit her name name, and it feels like ash in your mouth. “hera. she- they-”

lovelace nods, and eiffel turns his head away, closes his eyes firmly. 

“they’re…”

lovelace nods again.

you wrap your arms around yourself and wish minkowski was sitting where you are sitting. this is so wrong. you don’t belong here. not in this house, the house of a nice, old lady driving a truck and staring at you with eyes that have seen worse - _“oh dear. you all look like you could do with a glass of whisky or two. hop in!”_ \- what are the odds of encountering someone so nice, so _good_ , you of all people know how cruel the world is because you’re one of the people who make it that way. you don’t belong here. in a room together with lovelace and eiffel. you wish minkowski was sitting where you are sitting; wish you were dead.

-ah.

haven’t had that one in a while. 

you laugh under your breath, and lovelace looks at you, but doesn’t say anything.

(the booze the lady dishes up smells and tastes hideous, and it’s too strong, even for you. you catch eiffel staring at the glass she set down in front of him despite his protests, and you take it instead. it makes you tear up, makes you feel warm, You Like The Burn Of It In Your Throat)

two hours later, lovelace is asleep, and eiffel isn’t, and he looks at you. you left a light on, but you’d be able to feel his eyes on you even if it was dark. he looks dead tired, but his eyes are warm and attentive, you never noticed how kind his eyes are, and you think _he didn’t belong up there, he didn’t deserve this_.

“... y’know.” he _sounds_ dead tired as well. “the bed’s big enough for two people.”

you just stare at him for a long time then. “why are you so nice?”

“... what?”

“to me. you, and lovelace too. why? i get you’re the good guys, but. why bother?”

eiffel laughs. it sounds exhausted and sad, but the smile he shoots you afterwards is genuine. “bomberman … sorry to break it to you, but you’ve officially been accepted as part of the crew a while ago. one of us, live together, die alone and all that.”

“...”

“so? what will it be? a boring, normal earth bed - or the floor, surrounded by chucky’s self help group?”

you decide for the bed, and eiffel was right: it’s big enough for two people to lie comfortable in it. 

still. in the morning you wake up huddled up to him, and the sun is back and he’s still half asleep when he blinks at you and hugs you properly. you think you’re tense, and later think you were wrong, because you fall asleep again with his arms wrapped around you.

so, okay.

you’re awake, and you’re home; foreign house, still-familiar planet.

just like that.

it’s so simple it hurts; so simple it feels wrong.

*

you’re not sure what happens next.

or, you know. but you don’t really _remember_. time passes, seems to skip, you fumble your way through days and weeks, and the clocks don’t make sense whenever you check the time and look away and then back again, you stare at the moving hands with an unsettling sense of confusion, you feel like you’re cheating your way through life like you always did: half-assed, unmotivated, desperate, lost, and now, now also, new feature, tripping and falling in and out of time, maybe you simply fail to pay enough attention, you’re not sure, maybe in some next, luckier, happier life, fuck.

“jacobi?”

“hey bomberma- hello? anyone home?”

“ground control at- actually, forget that - jacobi?”

“you okay?”

“are you alright?”

“hey, buddy, you fine there?”

“you just”

“seemed”

“a little”

“spaced out”

“for a moment”

“there”

poor choice of words, you think.

“fine,” you say, “fine.”, “i’m fine.”, “yeah, i’m alright.”, “sure, why wouldn’t i be?”, “geez, stop worrying.”, “i was just”, “a little”, “spaced out”, “for a moment”, “there”.

when you think about it like that, when you split it up in all the times eiffel and lovelace worry about you separately, when you think about it 

like 

that, 

it reminds you of Him and His habit of keeping the words in His mouth for as long as possible, and you only just now realize how fitting it is that He spoke so slowly; the words kept dripping out of His mouth like molasses, like honey, like venom, sweet and sticky and deadly, how fucking fitting, how goddamn extra.

“you know, jacobi, i’m kinda worried. about you and that … thousand yard stare thing you’ve got going on sometimes.”

“fine. i’m fine. i’ll stop.”

she makes a sound, half a huff, half a laugh. “what? i don’t think that’s something you can just stop. i thi-”

“if you want me to stop, i can stop.”

it makes sense in your head, even as she stares at you, expression in her eyes slowly shifting, stage one: confusion, stage two: dawning realization, stage three: unreadable; it makes sense to you, you spent half your life following orders, so why should you stop now, it’s the one thing you’re good at.

“alright. just … _tell_ us if you need anything, or if you want to talk to-”

you shrug and nod. “i’m fine.”

you try to space out less. 

(she’s right; it doesn’t work at all.)

*

eiffel likes hugs and affection in general, he’s always busy shuffling closer to one of you while you’re sitting on the couch, or brushing his hand against one of yours backs, or leaning his head against one of yours shoulders. 

you like that eiffel likes hugs. 

neither of you likes being alone. convenient.

*

“trek,” you say, and can hear lovelace snort. 

“big mistake, jacobi.”

eiffel stares at you. scandalized. you’ve never seen him so scandalized before, which is funny, because he saw all kinds of things, torn out electrical brains and death viruses and stars going mood ring and blown out human brains- ah. no. alien brains. you cast a quick glance to lovelace. she’s sitting on the floor, tablet in front of her, tutorial open. she’s learning to knit. it’s a little weird. but a hobby is a hobby, is a way to pass time, so, fair enough.

where were you?

things. scandalous things. blood and brains, floating and expanding as if they were a whole universe, you’re sure there’s a cheesy metaphor in there somewhere, but all you can think of is that zero-g is fucking stupid when you want to kill someone.

need. when you _need_ to kill someone.

blown up plant monsters, because Kepler wanted it gone, because He ordered you to.

things. he’s seen them.

but no. 

that you like one movie series more than the other. that’s what scandalizes him.

“i’m sure you’ll change your mind once we’ve watched the new ones together,” he says.

“keeping me from seeing them at the cinema is the worst thing goddard has done to me,” he says, lightly, and you stare at him and wonder how a single person can be so full of enthusiasm and-

innocence.

funny. he was in jail. you never were.

*

you wake up and he isn’t there and it’s 1:30 am, and you spend half an hour lying on your back, staring at the ceiling and trying to breathe evenly, trying not to fucking freak out here just because he isn’t there, trying to convince yourself that you’re not completely alone, the apartment isn’t empty just because the space (heh, good one, very subtle) next to you is, you’re not alone, you’re not alone, you’re not alone. when you’re done with that (and almost convinced), you spend the next half hour thinking about how Kepler used to leave in the middle of night, how you lay awake, unsure about what was aching more, the bruises on your hips and the bite marks on your neck, or your heart, and how He had barely looked at you in the morning, “let’s go, mr. jacobi”, as if you hadn’t moaned His name just a few hours ago.

then you think about how silly you are, comparing them, because eiffel isn’t even fucking you.

(then you think about why he isn’t.)

you’re almost convinced, but you need to chase away the remaining doubt that’s still there, so you get up eventually, walk down the hallway and expect to find him in the living room, sitting with lovelace, watching some stupid cooking show, maybe.

you instead find him crying in the kitchen.

you stand there for a very long moment and just stare at him, because you don’t think you’ve ever seen him cry since you watched his commander die. you contemplate waking lovelace up, because you’re not sure you can deal with this, you’re not even sure you’re the one who _should_ deal with this, but in the end you clear your throat, awkwardly, and he immediately looks up, wiping at his eyes.

“hi, jacobi.”

“hey.”

“hey.”

“you … okay?”

he stares at you and shakes his head, and you hesitantly approach him, half expect him to tell you to fuck off. you sit down next to him when he doesn’t.

for a minute or two you both just sit there, and then you place a hand on his back, and it’s marvelous, the way you feel like you’re fucking up even this. it’s so simple, all the touches and closeness seem to come so easy to him. (but then again, putting a hand on someone’s back in order to comfort them seems to be something profoundly human, and that’s not what you are, so.) he leans closer, eases into your arm until you’re half hugging him, and then he starts talking.

he’s talking about his daughter, about how he misses her, about how he wants to hug her, or just see her, just once, “i just want to know that she’s okay”, and you ask why he doesn’t try and find her, but you know the answer, of course.

“lovelace talked me out of it. she said it was a bad idea, potentially dangerous. said”

goddard is probably keeping an eye on his family

“i mean, we have no idea what happened to the slightly dracula-esque capitalist overlord and his bride frankenpryce, but”

no matter whether they returned to earth or not, goddard is still there, and sure, sure, you decided to _go and talk to someone_ a few weeks ago, tell someone about what happened, after a huge discussion and yelling at each other, but goddard is still there, and even _if_ someone manages to uncover whatever fucked up stuff they have going on, this will take time, and until then, lovelace is right, it would be potentially risky

“and i don’t want to be irresponsible- i mean- i…”

ruined her life once already, he doesn’t want to ruin it a again.

“shit,” you say when he’s done, ever eloquent. “fuck, i’m sorry.” 

you can’t think of anything else to say, but a few minutes later, he’s coming back to bed with you.

*

(you don’t change your mind, tell him that you still think star trek is better, but you like carrie fisher, and then you find out she’s dead. oh well.)

*

lovelace falls asleep somewhere halfway through one of the movies and eiffel tries to look offended but there’s only affection, because she’s still sitting on the floor in front of the sofa, and her head has fallen back and is now leaned against your legs, because _you’re_ sitting _on_ the sofa, and

you have no idea how you ended up there.

*

crush  
/krʌʃ/

verb:  
violently subdue (opposition or a rebellion).

okay. okay, okay, okay, okay, okay, okay, okay, okay. ok.

okay,

okay.

eiffel wakes up half-screaming, but he’s the one who’s worried when he realizes that you’re still awake. nightmares are normal, he says, brains and working through stuff or some such fancy freudian business. 

“freud was a dick”

Eiffel laughs.

then he stops.

“really” he says. “nightmares are normal. i think. our brains need dreams and so on. need sleep. you can’t just stay awake so you don’t dream”

you blink.

it’s okay. okay, okay, okay, okay, okay. fine. you’re fine. you tell him.

“are you sure”

“yeah. go back to sleep, eiffel”

“okay”

ok

*

he’s got it all wrong.

you actually stay awake because you never have nightmares, and it makes you feel-

well.

alien.

lovelace is sleeping on the couch, alternating between snoring lightly and talking in her sleep, and you can’t stop thinking about Kepler late at night.

why did you decide to stay together again?

*

you’ve been back for about a week or maybe two, that’s when you’re still spacing out _a lot_ so you’re not sure, and you’re sitting in a café, thoroughly interrogated; some official agency that has assured you thirteen times that they’ve got nothing to do with goddard futuristics, and eiffel is the first who speaks, and he’s smiling a little.

“what gets traumatized together, stays together,” He says.

*

ah. 

right.

that was it.

*

noun:

(informal)  
a brief but intense infatuation for someone, especially someone unattainable.

okay.

okay, okay.

okay.

“you think Kepler’s fine?” you ask, then add, just a second later, “sorry.”

eiffel laughs. “what for?”

you shrug. he looks at you and stops laughing, but he smiles, a little bit, and he pushes a strand of hair out of your face.

you want to kill him. just a little. he doesn’t take his fingers out of your hair. you want to kiss him, too.

“seriously,” he says. “what are you apologizing for?”

you shrug.

“you don’t have to be sorry for, uh.”

yeah. good luck putting _that_ into words. 

“for still having a crush on Him.”

huh. didn’t seem that hard, after all. felt more complicated in your head.

you shrug.

“was just wondering. what you think.”

“i think He’s fine. probably.”

maybe He is. but He was still with cutter and pryce and riemann, so. eh. ‘fine’ is a matter of definition.

and you’re not even sure what answer you had hoped for.

*

you want to k i _ _ him.

you used to play hangman with maxwell, sometimes. before she was dead.

tip: it’s a consonant.

it’s a stupid thought, and you hear it in His voice, with that stupid, attractive drawl.

*

you lean forward, slowly, eyes wide, searching for any sign of resistance. there’s none. instead eiffel moves, closes the distance, and his hands are on your back, and you can feel that they’re cold even through the fabric of your shirt. the kiss is so gentle that you’re completely taken aback for a moment.

then you kiss back.

okay.

the sound of the knitting needles stops, then continues.

okay, okay, okay, okay, okay, okay.

*

you’re overly aware of eiffel’s presence this night while you’re both lying in bed. he seems to feel the same, because you just stare at each other, unmoving, silent. minutes pass like that.

“should we, uh, talk about this?” eiffel asks, and you want to shake your head and kil- _kiss_ him senseless, but shrug instead.

“about what?”

“that. uh, we’re. hm. we’re … sharing a bed.”

“yup. nice observation there. have been for the last two months or so.”

“well, yeah. but…”

you know: but: it had just kinda happened, because lovelace immediately called dibs on the couch, for some reason, and it was never more, and you never talked about it.

you stare at each other again.

“but?” you say.

“i kinda maybe wanna kiss you aga-”

“do it.” your voice is slightly breathless and it’s almost an order, and your whole body goes tense with the sensation of this being wrong for a second; you’re not the one telling others what to do, not in general, certainly not in bed-

eiffel’s lips are on your own. they’re soft and taste like toothpaste and you remember how Kepler had shown you the recording of day 455, back when hostage negotiations revolved around toothpaste, and He had laughed and you had laughed, had thought that eiffel sounded fucking stupid, and-

fuck. 

you didn’t mean to think about Him. rounded the corner and there it was, the memory, and your fingers against eiffel’s side are just a tiny bit shaky, and you don’t want this, you want to _forget_ , so you press yourself flush against eiffel and bury your hand in his hair. 

he sighs into the kiss, a little surprised, perhaps, but not complaining-

_(“i know, i know! i’m not complaining! i’m not complaining …”)_

-and you part your lips, lick against his and then into his mouth almost desperately, and you _revel_ in the way Eiffel’s finger twitch on your back before grabbing a fistful of your shirt. you push your thigh between His legs and then _up_ , and Eiffel makes a _sound_ that sends electricity through your entire body.

the kiss gets messy quickly, Eiffel bites your lower lip and you gasp, and He pulls you closer, His hand on your hip, rubbing gentle circles into it, His tongue brushing against yours, you want to stay in this moment forever. Eiffel grabs your shirt again, tugs on it, looks at you. “can i-”

“yeah,” you say, quickly and a little breathless. “god, yeah.”

He laughs and takes off your shirt, then His own, then looks at you for a long while, kneeling on the bed, above you, for a long while, until you almost wish you were still wearing it, for a long while, until you’re nervous.

before you can say anything, He does. “god. you’re beautiful, you know that?”

you swallow heavily and place a hand against His cheek when He leans down to kiss you again, ignore the stab of guilt; you have no idea where it’s coming from, anyway, you just know that this feels too good, it’s too gentle, you don’t deser-

“i don’t deserve this,” you say, you whisper it against His lips.

Eiffel pulls back immediately, looks at you. “what?”

you regret your words. “nothing,” you say, and want to kiss Him again, you try to pull Him back against you, but he pushes himself off the bed a little. 

“hey, no, wait. what do you mean, you don’t … deserve this?”

“nothing,” you say, voice tight. “forget it.”

“jacobi,” he says, and then, “well, i mean, i guess i _am_ a pretty decent kisser, but that’s really nothing you have to earn firs-”

“this whole thing where you’re being so gentle,” you interrupt him. “it’s so pointless.”

you can see in his eyes that he has no idea what you mean, and you’re not even sure you had a point to begin with, and suddenly you don’t know what you’re doing here, why you’re kissing eiffel, why you want to kiss him again, even though all you can think about is-

“i’m not thinking about _you_ , anyway,” you say and shrug, and your voice is pleasantly casual.

“... oh. okay. … i mean, i’m sure that’s not the first time, but you’re the first who admits it.”

you blink, because you think the appropriate reaction would be to be hurt, but he just sounds neutral, and his eyes are still very, very warm.

he sighs and lies down next to you again.

“can i stay?”

_(“don’t expect me to stay, jacobi.”)_

you close your eyes. “yeah. sure.”

“okay.” eiffel stays still for a moment, and then you hear the rustling of the bedsheets and know he’s turned on his side to look at you. “just want you to know that you’re wrong, alright? i don’t care what He told you or insinuated or made you believe, but being treated decently isn’t something you have to _earn_ first.”

you nod silently without really acknowledging the words. you feel _spaced out_ although you know you’re not, not like all the other times, at least, it’s not the time that’s off, just you.

“can i kiss you goodnight?” he asks, and the question is so _pure_ , he sounds so _open_ , there’s no hidden meaning, no twenty-three layers of scheming and tactical manipulation behind it. it’s a little scary. you nod.

eiffel puts an arm around you and brushes his lips against yours and He murmurs “you’re a good guy, jacobi”, and you kind of want to cry, and you want to say, stop, want to say, you don’t know how good i am at falling in love with pretty boys who tell me pretty lies in pretty voices.

*

this night, you dream, dreams that would have made you feel alive a few years ago but feel like nightmares now, changing sceneries, explosions and destruction and death and blood and icy booze, picture after picture, and Kepler stars in all of them, he’s always loved the stage. 

*

you continue on as if nothing had happened, after that, and you fall in some kind of routine, and things are kinda okay while you all are not. you get a shitty job in a shitty grocery store with a shitty outdated cash register and shitty rude customers, and lovelace starts working at a café and curses about how she misses being in charge of something that’s more likely to kill her than soccer moms whose order she gets wrong, and you laugh and say “hey, same, but with coupons i can’t accept for one reason or another, instead of fucked up orders”, only vaguely aware that this shouldn’t be quite that relatable.

*

lovelace comes home one afternoon, grinning at eiffel.

“the café plays that one radio station, right?” she says while kicking off her shoes. “and today, one of the hosts suddenly interrupted the song playing and started rambling about how he met someone online instead. that girl had just texted him back and told him she ‘wanted to see him too’.”

“what the fuck,” you say, and eiffel blinks, because she’s still smirking at him.

“said he hated his job anyway,” lovelace adds, and then “anywaaaay, Long Story Short,” (you flinch) “they are looking for a new radio host because one of theirs booked it to boston. doesn’t that sound like exactly the job for you?”

you snort, and eiffel rolls his eyes. 

“thanks, captain, but last time i tried anything of the sort, i was a little _too_ good at it. and i wasn’t even _trying_.”

she laughs and pats him on the shoulder. “just joking. seriously though, you need something to keep yourself occupied.”

“yeah,” you say. “work is _so much fun_ after all.”

eiffel laughs, and she flops down next to you and nudges your side. “emo.” 

she waits until eiffel is out of the room (“gonna get cigarettes, in the not-shitty-father-cliché-kind-of-way, so i’ll be right back, for real”) before she continues talking, voice different, serious now. “jacobi?” she says. “jacobi, i’m worried about you.”

“why?” you deliberately relax your shoulders.

she looks at you and shrugs, and then she just says it, as straight-forward as she always has been, “because sometimes you look at us as if you’re not sure who you’d rather kill - us or yourself.”

you scramble for a sarcastic answer. “ah. that.” well. that’s not what you were going for.

“yeah. that.”

you don’t say anything.

“maybe you should talk to someone. to-”

“oh, _please_. you wanna, what? send me to a shrink? yeah, yeah, sure! hey, doc, i don’t know, nothing’s wrong, really, just, i was in space and my best friend got killed and i killed someone too and then i felt betrayed a lot and almost killed my ex,” you stumble over your words, try to put them together right quickly, “ex- _boss_ , but between that and the brainwashing, i actually think living together with a literal alien now is the weirdest thing.”

silence. you close your eyes. “sorry. that last part was-”

“i still think about my old crew sometimes, you know,” she interrupts you.

“... what?”

“my old crew. fisher, and fourier. rhea. hui. sam. even selberg. hilbert. whoever he was, in the end.”

“what’s your point?”

“my point is, i still think about them sometimes, and thinking about them fucks me up.”

you set your jaw, refuse to look at her. unspoken rule number one: none of you talk about how fucked up you all are. ever.

“and i _know_ we all don’t want to talk about it, i _know_ we’re all traumatized and scared shitless and paranoid, but i don’t want you to do anything stupid, and Kepler and you were- ugh, i don’t know, but whatever you shared was fucked up and unhealthy, and if _i_ still think about my _extremely wonderful_ crew, i feel _really_ confident with making a wild guess and saying that you’re still thinking about _Him_.”

silence, and you think that it’s not your fault, it’s just so unfamiliar, being with people, living a life, of course you think about Him,

“well?”

you nod slowly, and lovelace takes a deep breath, exhales slowly. 

“i like you, jacobi. i want you to be okay.”

good one.

“look, i.” you laugh. “i don’t even know what ‘okay’ is supposed to feel like. i’m familiar with not being okay. it’s fine.”

“stop telling us you’re fine.”

“i _am_ -”

“eiffel’s worried too.”

that shuts you up.

“he doesn’t want you to notice, but he’s worried. you can talk about Kepler and about what you’re feeling without going into details about what exactly caused all the hurt. you don’t have to tell anyone that ‘they come in peace, as long as we sacrifice our music to them’.”

you laugh a little and blink, and then blink again, because you realize there are tears in your eyes.

“just … think about it, okay?”

okay. okay, okay, okay, you nod.

“... by the way. eiffel _also_ thinks you’re cute. just saying.”

eiffel comes back before you can react to that, but you can feel your face burn.

he’s standing in the living room, smelling of cigarette smoke, looking thoughtful for a second before making a dismissive, amused sound. “really,” he says, “me doing something with _radio_ again”, as if that conversation wasn’t over already.

lovelace raises an eyebrow at him. “take your shoes off.” 

he sighs but does, and then sits down next to you, leaning his head against your shoulder. “heeey,” he says, looking up at you, “come here often?”, lovelace snorts, and His stupid, attractive voice makes it much harder to react with familiar, sarcastic words. 

you shake your head instead, manage to force out a “but maybe i should” in a tone that is, you hope, only mockingly flirty, and Eiffel laughs.

“yeah, maybe you should. … seriously, jacobi, can you imagine what a mess it would be if i started a job in the radio business again?”

*

_“is this thing working? uhh … one sec. damn, it’s not as if the equipment is complicated, so- ah, wait, there’s a red light. is that a gooood thing or- hey? lars? what does red light mean? … … ‘on air’, oh, i s- oh! oh, uh, hi! hello, dear listen- uh, no no no, wait. gimme a sec. … helloooo, dear … radio users! this is com- … this. is your new host, douuug eiffel! i’m happy to talk to you all! i’m here to replace craig who left last week to meet a stranger in a strange land … also known as boston. uh, i’ll tell you a thing or two about myself in a few minutes, but for now, we have a load of great songs for you, and i know for a fact you all can’t wait to hear ‘everybody wants to rule the world’, so here’s some good news: lorde’s got you … … covered.”_

“i can’t believe he made that joke.” lovelace is staring at the radio sitting on the shelf. “actually, no, scratch that. i still can’t believe he applied for this job. and he sounded so _motivated_.”

no, you think.

happy.

he sounded … very, very happy.

you look down at your hands, take a deep breath, and before you can think twice, you say, “i think i … thought about it. the. the shrink thing.”

*

“why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself?”

“... what d’you wanna know?”

“whatever you want to tell me.”

“eh, well.”

“... let’s start with ‘how are you’, then.”

“peachy. that’s why i’m here. couldn’t think of a better way to waste my money.”

*

“hey,” eiffel whispers, “you awake?”

you keep your eyes closed for a few more seconds. eiffel’s hugging you close. it’s not unusual, it’s just how you do things, somehow, but today is one of the days you’re overly aware of how warm he is, how soft. his breath against your skin doesn’t help.

“... yeah,” you whisper back.

“you don’t have to answer, of course, but - how’d the first session with hannibal go, clarice?”

“... i actually preferred the tv show.” you hate the book, in fact.

“how’d the first session with hannibal go, will?”

“good.”

“really? good. that’s good.”

“yeah.”

you lean your forehead against his shoulder, and you don’t know what, but something about the atmosphere in the room makes you talk after a few seconds. 

“i’m lying. it was horrible.”

“oh.”

“yeah. i was just … being sarcastic and … rude, i think.”

“and what did _she_ say?”

“see you next week,” you answer dryly, and eiffel laughs a little. 

*

“you … talked about your best friend a lot,” she says. 

the shrink is sitting in her chair, with the back to a big window, and you stare over her shoulder and you can see a tree and an apartment complex and a grey sky and a lot of white, white snow.

“and i noticed that you started talking about your … ‘superior’ a few times, but immediately changed subject every time you did.”

you stare down at your hands, wrap your fingers into the sleeves of your hoodie, fiddle with the fabric. 

“do you want to talk about Him?”

“nah,” you say, “not really,” and shake your head, and then shrug, and then nod. “yeah. i do. i … i do.”

you take a deep breath.

*

lovelace makes a sound, triumphant. “i’m done! i! am! done!” she holds up-

“what … what is that?”

she frowns. “a blanket!”

“oh, i know, i know! the answer is - what’s full of holes?”

you snort, and she glares at both of you. “oh, _fine_ , jeopardy, round two: the question is: isabel lovelace.”

“huh. do we get a clue?”

“no, but the answer was ‘who’s gonna stab you with a knitting needle’. knitting is hard, take the damn blanket.”

you take it, and the wool is itchy and eiffel was right - it is full of holes. “we love it,” you say.

“you’d better.”

*

_“dear radio users, it has been brought to my attention that every last friday of every month, from six to midnight - is classical evening! which … i have a lot of thoughts on, but i’m preeeetty sure y’all find me weird already anyway, so i’ll spare you. call in and ask for a song! however, you’ll have to pass a ‘i am a real human’ test first. i don’t know how yet, but i’ll figure something out before the first caller’s on air. anyway! for now, for all of you who are worrying about something, i have the perfect song for you. it’s so good, you could make a religion out of it, believe me. let’s listen toooo … the mind er- actually, wait, i can finally look up the real title. … … … okay, this is very boring, never mind. here’s the mind eraser! … no, lars, i know, but the real title is sup-”_

“why in the world does he call it the mind eraser,” you ask, and lovelace shrugs, and then you continue to hum the stupid song for the rest of the evening.

*

“he was-” (no … that’s not right.) “He was-” (better) “nice. sometimes. sometimes He was really nice. it was good. sometimes. when we were - maxwell and Him and me, i mean - when we were on business trips, we’d play those stupid road trip games and it was … good. really was. He … bought me fireworks, once. … that, that sounds stupid, ridiculous, i know, but it made me … very happy.”

she hums thoughtfully. “it doesn’t sound stupid or ridiculous to me. to me, it’s just a neutral statement. but it’s interesting to think about why you would immediately call it stupid and ridiculous, no?”

you look at her, tilt your head a little.

“let me- mr. jacobi, who’s the kindest person you know?”

you blink, confused, and have to think about it. “i… i don’t know. maxwell, maybe. i think.” you remember late night netflix binge-watching and mario kart and beer and frozen pizza, you remember how you used to fall asleep cuddled up against her holding her hand, you remember how ‘making eye contact with you is very easy for some reason’ is still the best compliment you’ve ever gotten. “maxwell.”

the shrink nods her head, smiles a little and asks “and was she _always_ kind?”

you almost start laughing and then feel bad for it.

“no.”

you remember sniper rifles and the smell of blood and Kepler’s approving eyes on her, you remember that one time you didn’t talk to each other for two weeks, managing to keep that up even though you both sat in the same conference room for a briefing. you try to remember the reason for this fight, but can’t.

she nods again. “the point is - good people aren’t always good. that’s an unrealistic expectation, and one that seems perfectly logical. likewise - and much harder to grasp and accept - people who … do us harm can be _nice_ , every now and then. some of them are nice most of the time, and still manage to wound us deeply. what’s important is that your’re allowed to be angry. you’re allowed to be angry at Him, and you’re allowed to tell others - and acknowledge yourself - that He wasn’t good for you, despite all the times it felt good.”

you look away, stare down at the floor instead. “yeah,” you say. “okay,” you say, and then you spend one session telling her about all the times it felt good, and then four or five sessions telling her about all the times He made you feel horrible and insignificant and broken.

*

Eiffel smiles at you before He turns the light off, and He kisses you on the cheek; a new routine, He does it every time before you go to sleep, and His smile is so goddamn pretty, you hate it.

*

“i know you probably want me to talk about how this whole boring grounding techniques stuff is going - okay, by the way - but i can’t stop thinking about Eiffel’s pretty mouth, and we sleep in the same bed and it’s so fucking _distracting_ , i don’t know what to _do_ , He keeps flirting with me, but i think He’s flirting with everyone, i think He’s sometimes flirting with lovelace too, so i don’t- i don’t _know_.”

the shrink hums a little, looks at you for a few seconds. “have you talked about-”

“no, of _course_ not, i don’t talk about things, you should know that by now!”

her eyes light up with faint amusement for a second. “but if you don’t talk to Him, you won’t know whether He really is interested in you. talking about feelings is difficult, i know, but it’s often necessary.”

“it’s not difficult, it’s annoying. we kissed. we- almost did more, i think, but- i was being, uh, i don’t know. i said something stupid, and then i said something hurtful, but He didn’t seem to mind, and it never came up again, and that was _weeks_ ago. i want to kiss Him again.”

“why don’t you ask Him whether it’d be okay if you kissed Him again?”

“what if He says no?”

“what if He says yes?”

you take a deep breath and sigh. “yeah. … yeah. i don’t know. i still- i don’t think i’m-”

she waits patiently while you search for the right words. she somehow always seems to know when to push, when to wait. 

“i still … think about … about Kepler sometimes. wouldn’t it be unfair to … kiss Eiffel, then?”

she thinks about this for a moment. “does He know about the complicated relationship you and Mr. Kepler shared?”

you snort. “fuck, yeah. He sure does.”

“then i wouldn’t say it’d be unfair. but you need to make sure you both know what’s happening - that there’s still a third person involved, passively, and that you’re working through it.”

“i think he knows that.”

“that’s good. still, mr. jacobi - the best way to act _fair_ here is-”

“communication. ugh. yeah. of course it’s communication.”

*

it’s a little surreal, that lovelace of all people would look nervous - anxious, almost - about something so trivial.

“and? what do you think?”

you look at eiffel, and he looks at you.

“c’mon, boys, say something.”

“something,” you say, automatically, and she grabs a pillow and throws it at you.

“i think,” eiffel slowly says, “that it’s really comfy.”

“yeah,” you agree. “it is.”

“really?”

“yeah.”

“and,” eiffel grins, “it looks nice. on jacobi, at least, but then again, he looks always nice.” 

you open your mouth and then close it again, because he has a way of making you fucking speechless; you hate this. he grins even more, big and goofy and stupidly attractive.

“stop flirting and tell me i’m the best.”

you look down on yourself, run your hand over the perfectly even stitches, and it occurs to you how disgustingly _domestic_ this is, you and eiffel are sitting on the same couch, wearing handmade christmas sweaters. “you’re the best,” you say and kinda mean it.

*

Eiffel smiles at you and then turns the light off, and He kisses you on the cheek, and you close your eyes and your heart is beating heavily, and “can i kiss you? i can’t stop thinking about- how we kissed, i would like to kiss you again.”

He stills, and you can feel His eyes on you. “are you sure?”

you nod.

“i just mean. i mean, we uh. last time was kinda-”

“i know,” you say quickly. “i know, i know, i’m sorry for that, i was weird. but i can’t stop thinking about how pretty you are and about how pretty your voice is and i really want to kiss you again.” you register your own words with a five-second delay and then you feel fucking stupid. 

it’s perfectly silent for a moment, and you wish lovelace would just turn back time, and you decide to just say that out loud; that’s what you’re good at - making jokes that aren’t funny -, but then Eiffel is suddenly very, very close, and He kisses you.

He breaks away after just a moment, but He sounds as happy as He always sounds on the radio when He speaks. “if you’re sure you want this. i mean, i’m always glad when my flirting actually works out.”

so He _was_ flirting.

good. 

you grab His shirt, pull Him flush against yourself and wrap your arms around Him. you can feel Him smile as you press your lips against His again, as you kiss Him, passionately, shifting under Him, grinding up against Him. Eiffel makes that wonderful _sound_ again, the one that’s played in your head often ever since you last kissed Him, so you repeat it and He shivers, burying His head in the crook of your neck. 

“fuck,” He breathes and laughs a little, brushing His lips against your skin before pulling back slightly. “i, um, not to kill the mood, but just so i know where i stand,” Eiffel sounds a little breathless, “who’re you thinking about this time?”

“you,” you immediately say, “you, Eiffel, thinking about you, about your lips on mine and your hands on my body and,” you trail off, immediately distracted when He presses His lips against your neck and _bites down_ , you half-choke on your breath and whatever you wanted to say next comes out as nothing but a whimper. 

“good,” Eiffel says, muffled against your skin, “that’s cool.”

you nod, and your hands are on Eiffel’s back and you want nothing more than to tell him to just fuck you, but instead say, “although we should probably talk about what i said last time - that i’m thinking about-”

“Kepler,” He helpfully provides when the name refuses to come over your lips.

“yeah, that, we should talk about that, but can we do that-”

“later,” He says and sounds very okay with that.

“good. good, because i really don’t want to stop this time, please don’t stop.” your voice is pathetic; breathy and too eager, but you can’t bring yourself to care. “just don’t stop,” you repeat.

He doesn’t.

instead, He undresses you both, and then He’s looking at you, just like He did the last time, and His hand is all over you, He scrapes his nails over the insides of your thighs gently, and then goes _higher_ , and-

and you groan and jerk against His hand, and He stares at you and His eyes are so _gentle_ , and then He’s gone, but only for a second, only long enough to yank the drawer of your shared nightstand open and fumble for a condom, and suddenly this is very real and all you can think about is that you’re going to sleep with the guy who found aliens and made them say ‘correctamundo’, and that’s fucking hilarious, so you laugh.

He looks at you and has no idea why you’re laughing, of course, but He grins widely, and it’s so pretty, and He says “you’re adorable, you know that?” and you nod and pull Him down for another kiss, still half laughing.

He’s gentle, and it’s a little weird, in the beginning, but _good_ , very, very good, and every thrust has you gasping for air, but the noises He makes are what’s completely ruining you. His voice gets higher in pitch, His breathing is more frantic than kepler’s ever was, Eiffel feels so much more real, and god, He’s way, way more vocal, and He’s switching to your first name in the middle of a moan,

“jaco- _ohh_ , daniel, _fuck_ ”,

and you haven’t felt so goddamn alive in years.

*

He’s holding you tight against his chest, arm wrapped around you. “you wanna talk about kepler _now_? or would that be weird?”

“i don’t know,” you murmur. you’re very sleepy. “i think it would be weird,” you say, “but who cares. … i kinda miss him, sometimes,” you say. “was kinda very much in love with him, i think. i don’t know. it was more than a crush. i think.”

Eiffel nods a little. “that’s okay.”

“yeah,” you say. “yeah. it’s … it’s different with you. better, i think.”

He presses a kiss on the top of your head, and He’s smiling, you can feel it.

“sorry for what i said last time. really didn’t think about him tonight.”

“hey, it’s fine. and i believe you.”

you nod a little and yawn, and He pulls you even closer. “... shrink says it’s normal that i’m, um, not- not over him. that it’s gonna take time.”

“yeah. of course. i’m … here for you, okay? lovelace, too.”

you nod again, and then you’re quiet, and then you’re asleep.

*

this time, you don’t dream about kepler.

*

_“dear radio users, with that i’m signing off for today. i know, i know! i’ll miss you too, but i’ll be back tomorrow, and for now, michelle will take over while i’m headed home to my roommate and my-”_

*

“how are you today, mr. jacobi?”

you nod a little. “... He called me his boyfriend.” 

“oh,” she says. “you two are-”

“i … guess. He seems to think so.”

“did you mind Him calling you that?”

“... nah. i didn’t. it was- ‘t made me smile. we … uh, kissed. and some more. ‘t was good. nice. He’s … kind. gentle. i think i like that.”

she smiles at you. “i’m glad to hear that.”

it’s silent for a few moments, and the atmosphere in the room is light, it lacks the usual seriousness that seemed to be present during every session. “hey. do you wanna know what Eiffel _did_?”

“if you want to tell me, yes.” 

“He- we were making pizza, right, and He- i can’t even say this out loud!”

“what … happened?” 

“He puts pineapple on His pizza!”

“...”

“...”

“...”

“... so? analyze that!”

she looks at you for another second and then starts laughing, she tries to stop a few times, apologizes in between, but it takes almost a full minute for her to succeed.

“i- i’m really sorry, mr. jacobi, i didn’t mean to- but you sounded so _offended_ , and i thought something serious had-”

“this _is_ serious. i mean, what the fuck is wrong with Him? that’s disgusting,” you say. “my boyfriend likes _pineapple_ on His _pizza_!” 

*

Lovelace and Eiffel are waiting for you outside the building.

“You okay?” Lovelace asks, and you nod. 

“Yeah. Was good.”

“Glad to hear it. Now, let’s go.”

You sigh and start walking alongside the other two. “The store will be crowded.”

“Yup,” Eiffel says.

“I don’t like people. Why did we think it was a good idea to go grocery shopping the day before Christmas?”

“Because we’re all lazy and didn’t want to go yesterday, or the day before.”

“Ugh.”

“Come on, boys, lighten up. We survived space, we’ll survive grocery shopping.” Lovelace nudges your side, and you roll your eyes, but find yourself smiling, and then Eiffel grabs your hand without saying a single word, just like that, and you find yourself smiling even more.

So - in the end, it comes down to this:

It’s almost Christmas, and for once, you’re looking forward to it, and Lovelace is walking to your left side, and Eiffel is walking to your right side, and his hand is a little cold, but he’s talking about Home Alone, about how he hasn’t seen the first one in ages, and it feels _normal_ , and- You’re home, and _home_.

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr is @possessed-radios and my podcast sideblog is @shortwaveattentionspan; come tell me to stop with that edgy 2nd person POV stuff already so my stories won’t end up having a huge part of the focus on one (1) single character all the time.


End file.
